LOST: Charlie's Struggle
by Wenchy
Summary: This is a story based on just after season 2 episode 12.Charlie is struggleing against his battle of drug addiction, and with it, he now has to help Michael, who had dissapered into the jungle. But is it realy Michael that he is chasing?


Based after season 2 episode 12

**Charlie's Struggle**

The air had become thin. The ocean seemed deathly quiet. He could taste the salt in his mouth. He was alone, with nothing but his thoughts for company. What had gone wrong? How could something so small have escalated into such commotion? He couldn't understand. The situation made sense, yet somehow, his mind couldn't comprehend it. No, it's all wrong. They're all wrong. He was right! Of course he was right! He knows what's best…… Doesn't he?

He sat for a moment, contemplating what he was about to do. Considering all the possibilities of his actions. It's just one fix. No harm. Just one to get him through today. No more after that. This will be the last one. He struggled with himself for a few moments. Silently arguing with his weakness. Things may have been different if they had listened to him. He may have been able to cope if he had something to fight for. If Clair believed in him. If _anyone_ believed in him. But they didn't. And now he was losing faith in himself!

He took a slow, long, deep breath, which filled his lungs with a sense of imprisonment, which gradually disappeared as his lungs emptied and left him with a feeling of emancipation. He turned to his bag, which he'd casually thrown to one side. It looked empty but he knew the hidden truth! He new what secrets lay inside. The dark comforting figure reserved in the depths of its fabric. He grabbed the bag. No one was about. He was all alone. If he was quick, he new he could get away with it. No one would know what he had done. No one but himself and he could live with that ….. Couldn't he?

He pulled at the zip on his bag. It opened with a faint noise, which was swept away on the weak breeze that struck his face. He reached inside and felt for the figure within. It was cold against his fingers as he caressed it. He pulled the Virgin Mary from inside the bag. Could he really do it? Could he betray all those who believe in him? That _had _believed in him. He stood up and closed his eyes. He wanted to recoil from himself for a moment. To see what everyone else could see when they looked at him. He new he wouldn't like what he saw. His eyes began to burn. His eyelids lit up in a fantastic red. He knew the sun was in front of him now. He must have been standing there for quiet a while, but he didn't notice. He didn't care. Somehow, it seemed timeless.

"Walt," bellowed a familiar voice. He could hear Michael clearly from in the deepness of the jungle which lay behind him. He opened his eyes again.

"Walt," repeated the voice. He turned and stared into the jungle. The trees and vines prevented his eye from seeing anything more than the faint outlining of bushes.

"Michael?" he whispered. His voice had become coy. The sounds had stopped, but the fear of the silence that remained panicked him. He looked around for help. But he was still alone. He didn't notice that the Virgin Mary was still clutched in his hand. The voice began again and as it did, his grip became numb and the figure fell from his grasp.

For a split second his heart stopped, as he heard the smash that echoed around him and brought him back to his senses. "No, no, no, no, no," he muttered as he picked at the sharp shards of the broken figure. How could he hide it now? How could he keep it secret? While the figure was in tact, he had proof that he was strong. That he didn't need heroin. But it didn't matter anymore. Not now that his eye had fixed on the small bags that had been secretly hidden away. Not now that he had come face to face with the thing that had ruined his life.

"Walt," began the voice once more. "Walt."

He grabbed at the sand that contained the sharp pieces of his secret, which he had kept to himself for so long. He carelessly threw the sand into his bag.

"Walt," the voice shouted. He ran towards the jungle. He left his bag where it sat. He stopped and turned back toward where he had once been sitting. He had forgotten something. He ran back to his bag and fell to his knees. The small brown bags were still sitting on the sand. He stared at them for a few moments.

"Walt," howled the voice. He seized the small bags and pushed them into his tight crowded jean pocket as he ran towards the alarmed voice.

* * *

His feet began to slow as he drifted further into the jungle. The trees were tall and the ground was damp. He had left behind any trace of light with each step he took and now the dark had consumed him. Michael's voice had become quiet, nothing more but a faint hum in the distance. A slight echo surrounding the trees. He stopped, and tightened his eyes to try and see past the dark curtain of night. He fell to his knees as an unexpected thunderous noise interrupted his thoughts, he screamed in agony until the sound came to an abrupt halt. All seemed deathly quiet now. All except Michael's voice that he could hear clearly now. The voice had surrounded him. It tormented him, circling around him, chanting, whispering, Calling and weeping. He jumped to his feet.

"Michael?" he muttered in an incoherent tone. An unnatural wind spread through the trees like a rocket on take off. He stared as the trees began to sweep from side to side. The supernatural gust gripped him as he struggled to stand. He shouted for help but no one could hear him. No one was there. But where was Michael? Why did he not help? The wind began to deteriorate and with it, the hope of finding Michael.

He looked around to try to make sense of his direction. Which way should he go? Nothing looked the same. Everything looked different. Or maybe the darkness was playing tricks on him. Perhaps the wind had swept him further into the jungle. He didn't know. He listened to the sounds around him, eager to hear the faint sound of the sea or the beach. (Maybe to hear the dim noise of Aaron as he cried, or Clair as she soothed him), but he could hear nothing.

He began to walk through the dark in the direction he found most logical. The ground was heard, the wind steady and now and then the ground would rise and he would trip on an invisible tree root, disguised by the night. After about ten minutes of walking, he decided to sit. He could feel his heart racing. Its thumps seemed to be screaming at him. He put his hand inside his pocket, but what was this? Something inside. He couldn't remember putting anything in his pocket. He pulled out the small plastic bags as his mind developed a sudden knowledge of their existence. Everything had happened so fast back on the beach. He never thought about the bags for so long, until now.

Rain began to penetrate through the quilted layer of leaves. The minute drops fell onto his face and left him with a refreshing feeling. He placed the bags neatly in front of him and stared as the raindrops ran down his face. He had been watching the bags for some time now. Still struggling to refrain form taking them. He had sat through the night into the early hours of the morning. The rain had stopped a while ago but his clothes remained drenched and his hair flat, pressed against his head.

He looked up from the bags for the first time. It was light now and he could see where he was. He recognised the area. He was no more than a five-minute walk from the beach. He pushed the bags under a bush and tried to stand. His body was weak and his clothes seemed to be pulling him to the floor. He shivered as he walked. Water was still dripping from his hair and running down his face. He emerged from the trees as the warmth of the sun penetrated through the quilted layer of rain that had surfaced his face, and as it did, he collapsed.

He awoke in an awkward position. His sight was disfigured by the sleep that surrounded his eyes. He rubbed them and looked up. He was terror struck for a moment as he saw the figure in front of him. His body became stiff.

"Oh. Michael. It's you," he said in a thankful manor, but Michael did not answer. He just stared at him with a cold look. It was almost as if he couldn't see him, but was just looking. "Michael? Michael, it's me, are you ok?" Again Michael did not reply. He looked at Michaels hands. They were covered in something. He looked closer. It was thick warm red blood. It dripped onto the rich brown soil. But still he did not move.

"A… ar… ar… are you hurt?" He stuttered as he examined the bleed closer. He moved his hand towards Michael as to hold his wrist to get a better look at his wound but to his surprise Michael stepped back three paces. "Its ok," he said in a calming tone. His hands were now out in front of him, his palms flat as to offer a hand but Michael did not accept the friendly gesture. He turned and ran into the jungle.

"Wait," he shouted, but Michael ignored his plea. He followed Michael into an open area. The trees seemed distant. The grassy area was vast, with nothing more than bushes and shrubs to break up the land.

Michaels back was turned. He did not move. The wind swept through his hair at an immense speed that it almost knocked him from his feet. But Michael did not move. He stood firm, like a statue. He held his knees as he recaptured his energy; he looked up at Michael while he panted.

"Michael, please talk to me Michael… Please!" He begged. His voice had become high. To his surprise, the figure slowly began to turn, but his face was not that of Michael. He gasped. "Ana- Lucia?" He shouted. But Ana did not answer. Instead, she held out her arm and collapsed. All sound disappeared. The sound of the wind. The rustle of leaves. And the noise of the grass as he ran through it to her aid.

"Ana, can you hear me? Ana," he asked. He clothes were covered in blood. Her mouth began to move, but he couldn't hear any sound. Then her eyes fixed on his face.

"You can't help her," announced a deep voice.

"What?" he asked. He turned his head to look at the owner of the voice. The man smiled at him and began to laugh. He whipped his nose on his sleeve and stared at him with a sinister smile. "Hello Brother."

Everything seemed to move so fast. Trees and bushes seemed to merge together into a colourful blur. People passed him by even as he screamed for help. The land seemed to stretch. His brother seemed like an ant beginning to disappear into the trees. He could feel eyes upon him as everything stopped, but no one was there. "Charlie?" shouted a voice. He tried to answer but his voice was gone. Nothing but a slight wheeze passed his lips. And then he felt it. That warm hand on his shoulder. The smell of aftershave, just like the one his brother used to wear.

"Charlie."

* * *

He awoke to the smell of metal as he looked around at the bleak hatch. He was lying on an uncomfortable bed. New clothes had been neatly folded and placed at his bedside, but no one was about. He walked anxiously around the hatch but could find no one. He ran towards the beach.

"Help," he screamed. "Help, Help. Michael. I've seen Michael." He saw Jack running towards him, shortly followed by Kate and Hurley. Clair was watching in the background. "Charlie. You should be in bed," said Jack as he examined his cuts. "You're not well. Sayid and Eko found you by the trees, and you're lucky they did. You were very ill." He finished. But Charlie was not listening. He was trying to explain what had happened the night before.

The day went by so fast. The burning light of the sun had almost disappeared over the sea. Charlie had found himself sitting alone. His hands placed on his lap as he watched the sun. "Mind if I sit down. I've had it up to hear with Bernard's escape plans," enquired Rose. She sat next to Charlie, silent for a moment, watching him. "Do you believe me?" He asked, he turned and looked at her. His eyes were red and raw. "Yes Charlie. Of course I do. But I think you should get some rest?" Charlie didn't move. He could hear something. The sound of rustling bushes lay behind him. Could it be the wind? But there was no wind. "Did you hear that?" Rose stared at him for a moment. "Charlie, there's no noise, we're the only people over hear." She stated. He turned around slowly. "Michael" he screamed as he ran towards the figure, which was disfigured, by trees and bushes. He could hear his name muffled behind him. The voices became quieter with every step he took. If he could find Michael. If he could help him. If he could bring him back to the beach. Then, then they might believe him. Then he might believe _himself_. So much had happened. Could he really believe that all of _that _was real?

These thoughts span around, and around until his mind became an overwhelming swirl of questions. Everything stopped. All of the voices in his head were now gone. As he looked upon what stood before him. He wanted to turn and run. He wanted to scream as loud as he could. But he couldn't do any of these things. Not now that he was stood face to face with the dark smoke. "What? What do you want?" he asked in a puzzled tone. The smoke made no noise. It began to move, and as it did Charlie took a step backwards. "Vincent" called a voice. A dog forced Charlie to change view. He looked back but the smoke was gone. "What's this?" he thought to himself as he put his hand into his pocket. He pulled out a small bag. Charlie thought for a moment. He held the bags so tight that they almost split open. Then he slowly opened the packets. He stopped and thought once more as he turned the bags and sprinkled the drugs over the ground and kicked the dust over the top of it. He turned to Vincent who was sat patiently watching him. "Come on Vincent." Charlie picked up a stick and wagged it in front of the dog. "Come on get the stick. Get the stick." He repeated. Vincent came forward. Charlie took hold of his lead. He looked back at where the smoke had once been standing. "Lets get you back."


End file.
